


i wanna watch wisteria grow

by judyjargon



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, Character Study, Interviews, M/M, i may or may not hate this after i sleep, no beta we die like Glenn, we'll see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27842308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judyjargon/pseuds/judyjargon
Summary: Reincarnation—How Sylvain Redefined His Own LegacyBy: Byleth EisnerThe lived-in touches are easy to spot. There is a sink full of dishes, an overflow of jackets on the coat rack, and scattered papers atop the upright piano. Everything is the slightest bit out of place; the living room rug is crooked and the acoustic guitar balances precariously against the ajar piano bench, accompanied by a coffee mug on the floor. Sylvain makes a quick apology for the mess. “I got caught up writing,” he explains. “Make yourself at home. You want anything to drink? We got... iced tea and La Croix.”It’s a jarring departure from the media darling who drunkenly waved at paparazzi, uncaring of the headlines that would appear the next morning. The last time I interviewed him had been in a recording studio in the trenches of West Hollywood, where he had been working on his critically-acclaimed album, Cavalier, in May of 2015. Then, he had been 21 and nursing a cup of coffee, voice raw from working through the night. The person who speaks with me now is much more at ease, flurrying through his kitchen as he gestures for me to take a seat atop one of the bar stools that resides in the liminal space between the living room.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Kudos: 25





	i wanna watch wisteria grow

**Author's Note:**

> cw: mentions of past addiction
> 
> i have been trying and failing to write some kind of sylvain character study for forever. figures it would end up as a modern au in the format of an interview.... smh
> 
> i did in fact write this in one sitting and on minimal sleep... there may or may not be typos 
> 
> thank you <3
> 
> update: slept for seven hours and came back and edited it. much more palatable now.

**Reincarnation—How Sylvain Redefined His Own Legacy**

**By: Byleth Eisner**

Sylvain doesn’t live in a gated community or a cliffside mansion, contrary to the popular stereotype of your modern celebrity. Instead, arriving at his private Northern California home is more comparable to a weekend trip to the family cabin. There are miles of tall woods in every direction, quiet except for the rustling of leaves in the wind. The driveway is a long-winded dirt path that loops into a horseshoe, a patch of wildflowers growing in the center. There are various planters lining the edges of the building, overflowing with different fauna and flora. A sense of tranquility blankets the entire property.

The front door squeaks as it’s pushed open, revealing the visage of a red-haired man in a charcoal henley and jeans. He greets me with an easy-going smile and an extended hand. He makes note of my new hair color—a detail I hadn’t expected him to notice—and compliments it with a disarming genuineness. Stepping into his home, which he jokingly refers to as a “Pinterest cabin,” reveals the modernity of the deceivingly simple structure. The kitchen counters are marble and the appliances all pristine stainless steel. The mismatched grey-bricked fireplace is lit, its warmth felt even from across the room.

The lived-in touches are easy to spot. There is a sink full of dishes, an overflow of jackets on the coat rack, and scattered papers atop the upright piano. Everything is the slightest bit out of place; the living room rug is crooked and the acoustic guitar balances precariously against the ajar piano bench, accompanied by a coffee mug on the floor. Sylvain makes a quick apology for the mess. “I got caught up writing,” he explains. “Make yourself at home. You want anything to drink? We got... iced tea and La Croix.”

It’s a jarring departure from the media darling who drunkenly waved at paparazzi, uncaring of the headlines that would appear the next morning. The last time I interviewed him had been in a recording studio in the trenches of West Hollywood, where he had been working on his critically-acclaimed album, _Cavalier_ , in May of 2015. Then, he had been 21 and nursing a cup of coffee, voice raw from working through the night. The person who speaks with me now is much more at ease, flurrying through his kitchen as he gestures for me to take a seat atop one of the bar stools that resides in the liminal space between the living room. 

When we had spoken back then, he had been a constant whirlwind of movement, manifesting in fidgety gestures and reinventing ways to sit. That still remains, although this time in the form of pacing through his kitchen. A grey cat wanders out from the shadows of the hallway. Sylvain picks her up and introduces her as Felicia—yes, in Black Cat fame, despite the fact that she’s grey—before she scratches him, leaps from his arms, and skitters away. “Don’t mind her,” he laughs, “I’m not her favorite anyway.” He pours us two glasses of iced tea from a carafe—Bergamot, he tells me—before placing it back in the fridge. There’s a small charcuterie board on the counter that he picks up and places between us. It’s an immaculate spread of deli meats and gourmet cheese, artistically arranged amongst a smattering of crackers, figs, almonds, and a couple of jams. “My partner insisted, but I think he was just looking for an excuse to do some knifework.”

The easy admission is not something I expect. Information about his elusive so-called partner, who still remains faceless and nameless, in any capacity, is a rare occurence. The only public knowledge that exists of him is the exasperated call of Sylvain’s name in the background of an Instagram Live, obsessively clipped and over-analyzed by his fans, and the countless dedications made to him at performances. Even so, evidence of his presence is apparent in Sylvain’s home—there’s a collection of swords on display in the living room and a host of different Asian condiments and hot sauces in the door of the fridge. The picture frames that litter the space are tipped over, preserving the luxurious seclusion that the two of them fight relentlessly to maintain. “He’s a crazy private person,” he explains briefly, “I have no idea how or why he puts up with me.”

Indeed, Sylvain has lived under the public microscope since birth. His father, Ames Gautier, had been the CEO of former Gautier Records, since absorbed into Faerghus Music Group following his death. His mother, Elizabeth Vincent, graced countless Fashion Week runways throughout the 1990s. “My parents were busy people,” he shrugs indifferently. “At least, they were too busy for their kids.” It’s an entirely different stance compared to the answer he’d given five years ago when he claimed that, despite their global careers, they had always been “present and supportive” in their children’s lives. 

He doesn’t elaborate any more on his family, perhaps secure in the knowledge that he doesn’t need to. The 2016 events of Miklan Gautier’s substance abuse, public disownment, and subsequent death had rocked the industry, leading to the torturous decline of Ames Gautier’s reputation and Gautier Records. In the final, titular track off of his new album _Legacy_ , a simple piano line accompanies Sylvain as he waxes poetic about broken bonds and found family. “Writing that song was a journey,” he sighs, leaning against the counter as he starts to munch on the charcuterie board with me. “I blacked-out one night and woke up to a voice memo and a broken piano bench. By the time I finished it, the only thing I kept was the piano line. The rest of it was too fucking sad. It sat for a long time because, well, I was too busy fucking up everything around me to write anything real. ” The vague reference to his tumultuous last few years—which includes a canceled world tour, two stints in rehab, a new music label, and publicly coming out—is made with a loose hand-wavey gesture, a cracker and slice of salami pinched between his fingers. 

“I’m not gonna lie, I can’t tell you much about that year,” Sylvain says nonchalantly when asked, as if referring to a simple public event instead of the entirety of 2016, “Here's the thing: you can make problems disappear for a bit, but they always find a way. Always. Usually a thousand times worse and blasted for the world to see. Learned that one the hard way.” If anyone would be an expert on skeletons in the closet, it would be him. "As long as I was touring or writing or recording, I looked like a hard-working musician set on perfecting my craft. If I was working, I wouldn't have to pick up any damn calls or figure my shit out." In retrospect, I remember being surprised by the sleep-deprived, bleary-eyed young man I had interviewed five years ago, not long before his life had fallen apart. He’d been presented as a brilliant, prodigal musician; a media darling comfortable growing up in the throes of fame. Despite all of the interviews I’d done that had shown me otherwise, Sylvain’s public persona had managed to trick me into believing it to be true. 

_Legacy_ is a total dismantling of that image: it presents a timeline of suffocating expectations, spiraling into addiction, and making the choice to change. Every track is stripped back from the heavy production and bass that had defined his early career. Every lyric is visceral, the wobble of his tone bathed in catharsis and relief as he lays himself bare for the world to see. It has little in common with either _Sylvain Gautier_ or _Cavalier_ , two albums that now seem superficial in _Legacy_ 's wake. “There had been so many people telling me what I had be—a famous celebrity, a loyal son, a trophy boyfriend—that I lost all sense of self. My music was so intertwined with that version of me that I couldn’t tell it apart. This album is the story of how I figured out how to make music again.”

Barring the publicized events of his personal struggles, Sylvain’s battles within the music industry itself have earned their own notoriety. After paying the hefty fee for breaking his contract with his father’s label following his second stint in rehab, he seemingly dropped off the face of the Earth. Now, we know that he had spent that time here in his Northern California home, but his choice to return to the industry had shocked even him. “I thought I was done. Really. Except I was still writing, usually at ungodly hours, and had no direction in my life. My partner finally sat me down and told me that I needed to stop letting all of my bullshit stop me from doing what I love. So I called up Dimitri and, well, you know the rest of it.”

Dimitri Blaiddyd, son of Lambert Blaiddyd, the CEO of Faerghus Music Group, is his kind-eyed business partner and head of Azure Moon Records, the label that the two had quietly started together under the umbrella of FMG. It’s now the label that Sylvain is signed to and releasing his music under with his new mononymous stage name. “Dropping my last name was an easy choice. I try to be less of a hypocrite these days.” Indeed, _Legacy_ emphasizes the importance of acknowledging what is left behind for us, yet striving for what we want to leave behind ourselves. The lack of association to the last name that he has previously called “a pair of shackles” is perhaps the only logical conclusion. 

This reincarnated Sylvain seems to have most of it figured out. He shows me his one-year sobriety chip at one point, proudly noting that he’s nearly due for his two-year chip. His home is well-loved, filled with knickknacks and comfortably messy. From the few times he mentions him, it’s clear that he holds his partner in the highest regard. Yet, when I point this out to him, he lets out an incredulous small laugh. “I’m a work in progress. I can’t stomach the smell of any liquor, and I still smoke when I get stressed. I know I’m a menace to work with. Sometimes I pick fights because I’m bored.” He lists off his flaws with an alarming amount of clarity. It’s the kind of list that has been meticulously thought through before; carefully notated and stored away for future use. “But I’m flattered that you think I’m so well-adjusted. Really.”

At this point, we’ve migrated onto the opposing couches in his living room. On the coffee table lies a mug, half-full and beside a coaster instead of on it. He smiles fondly before moving it onto the coaster, a gesture that doesn’t feel meant to be seen. His movements are full of domestic ticks now, from the way he offers to get me a refill to how he tidies up anything he walks by. Does he ever miss the big city life, I wonder? The answer he gives me is clear. 

“Not anymore. I used to, in the beginning, when I didn’t know how to live any other way but loudly and wildly.” There is a far away, dreamy look in his eyes now as they stray towards the mug on the table. “Now, I’m finally happy with what I have.”

**Author's Note:**

> i was listening to folklore while writing this so if you see some taylor swift parallels... whoops?


End file.
